A plague on both your houses.
Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.